“Oh, no,” she moaned, clutching the edge of the table. “This can’t be happening to me.”
“A stroke of marvelous fortune, if I might venture an opinion. Certainly an opportunity not to be missed.”
Genevieve grasped frantically at her fast-disappearing shreds of reason. “I can’t just up and leave my business,” she said, mentally making a list of all the travails she had gone through to build it up. “Do you have any idea how many years it’s taken me to convince people I was a restoration artist, not just a glorified interior decorator? I have clients all over the country.”
There, that was beginning to sound reasonable.
“I love my work,” she said, warming to the topic. “Discovering the personality of the original structure, scraping away all the layers of living and old paint is what fires my imagination. How could you possibly ask me to give that up in return for spending the rest of my life in a castle I might hate at first sight?”
“But, Miss Buchanan, what could be more stimulating than doing restoration work on a marvelously preserved thirteenth-century castle?” He looked at her pleadingly. “Just think of all that money and the fine antiques you could buy with it. Why, you could even restart your business in England.”
Oh, a lawyer’s logic. Genevieve felt her fine resolutions begin to slip away from her like water down a drain. Heaven help her, she was actually considering it!
She had to escape—quickly, before she did something she’d regret. Her business was her life. She’d worked hard to build it from nothing. It was the one thing she had done on her own, without any help from anyone. Money and property weren’t more important than that.
“Mr. McShane, I’m going to have to say no.”
“But—” The butterfly fingers set to rapid, helpless flight. “If you do not take the castle, it will go to a distant relative of the late earl’s. Surely you don’t want that to happen.”
Genevieve stood. “I have to go,” she said miserably, then turned and ran from the restaurant.
A half hour later, Genevieve walked into her apartment and shut the door behind her. She bolted it by feel, then leaned back against it, letting the darkness envelop her. She let her bag slide to the floor. Her jacket followed.
She pushed away from the door and started down the hallway, counting the doorways by touch. Second on the right. She put her hand on the knob, then turned slowly. She stepped inside the room, then closed the door behind her. It was only then that she reached for the switch. Pale, golden light immediately filled the room, throwing the shadows back into corners and crevices.
She sat down on the floor right where she was and simply stared at what surrounded her. Castles. Castles of all sizes, shapes and colors. Paper castles she had taped, puzzle castles she had laminated, primitive wooden castles she had hammered. Then there were the castles she had purchased, replicas of ones that had existed in times past, castles that were only shells now on that distant isle.
She smiled faintly. It was her shrine, the place where she came when life wasn’t going so well. No matter what had really happened in the Middle Ages, to her a castle represented security. It was a place of refuge from the storms of life, a place full of family and laughter and love.
And now she had been offered one.
Was Bryan McShane a fairy godmother in disguise? Good grief, the structure alone was enough to send her mind reeling. What would it be like to own something so deeply coated with layers of history that she could never have scraped away all the signs of living? Not that she would have wanted to. No, she would have restored the structures and their interiors to their original glory, searching for months for the perfect piece to go in that corner, or the perfect tapestry to line that wall. It would have been a restoration expert’s dream. And if that had been as deep as her feelings ran, it might have been easier to walk away from the opportunity. Unfortunately, her fascination didn’t stop with just the stones and mortar.
In grade school when the other girls had been playing with dolls, she had been daydreaming of dragons and knights. In high school when the other girls had been worrying about makeup and boyfriends, she had been daydreaming about dragons, knights and their medieval abodes. During college when the other girls had been either trying to catch a man or hopping on the fast track, she had been busily designing, sketching and furnishing medieval dwellings for her knight to come home to after a hard day of dragon slaying. Castles had always figured prominently in her imagination, and certainly no castle had been complete without a charming, chivalrous and handsome knight who loved only her.
Freud would have had a field day with her daydreams. She didn’t want to speculate on why she continually felt the need to be rescued, but she suspected it had a great deal to do with the fact that most people tended to walk all over her and she tended to lie down and let them do it.
Well, that wouldn’t happen this time. Who knew what kind of domineering kin waited for her on yon isle, ready to leave footprints on the back of her shirt? No, it was best she stay right where she was. Her business was her life. She had sweated and slaved to get where she was. Her work had eased the pain of having lost her parents, distracted her from thoughts of a lover, kept her from agonizing because she had no children.
Her staff had become her family. They loved her, fussed over her, gave her a sense of belonging she’d never had, even in her own family. Her work demanded all her energies. What love she would have given to little ones, she lavished on the houses she restored. No detail was too small or insignificant. Old wood became beautiful under her hand, weathered stone threw off Sheetrock coverings, brick emerged from under layers of paint. Houses blossomed and took on a homey feeling. No matter that she created such a feeling for others. It was her joy.
And no amount of money was worth giving that up. Her father had been obsessed with money, her mother obsessed that he didn’t make enough. He’d had a heart attack at fifty and her mother had soon followed him to the grave. After the estate had paid the bills, the attorney had handed Genevieve her inheritance. The irony hadn’t escaped her. Two lives spent chasing after things that hadn’t lasted just to leave her a five-hundred-dollar legacy. She still had the check. It helped her keep her perspective.
No, she wouldn’t give in to temptation. She rose and walked back to her front door. After flipping on the lights, she picked up her purse and retrieved Bryan McShane’s card from her wallet and carried it into the kitchen. She turned on the faucet and started the garbage disposal.
And she froze. Well, perhaps that was a bit drastic, even for her. Maybe she could bargain for visitation rights. She shut the disposal off and turned off the water. Perhaps a month during the winter, when things were slow.
She hesitated.
Then she put her shoulders back. She did not need this distraction. It was best to just walk away while she still had the determination. Foolish or not, she had her reasons and she was very clear about what they were. She threw Mr. McShane’s card on top of a pile of papers she intended to recycle.
And it was with only a slight twinge of regret that she turned off the kitchen lights and went to bed.
Chapter Two
“But—”
“We have nothing further to discuss, Miss Buchanan. Good day.”
There was a click and then a dial tone. Genevieve looked at the phone in her hand and felt the urge to take it apart and see just what kind of bug had been put inside to torment her. That was the third client in a week who had dropped her like a scalding potato.
Her office door opened and Kate walked in. Genevieve pushed aside her concern. “Well, how did it go?” she asked.
Kate shrugged helplessly. “It was going fine until the phone call, then they threw me out of the house. No explanation, just good-bye and good riddance.”
Genevieve sighed and replaced the receiver she still held. “Maybe it’s something in the air. I just lost the Montgomery account.”
Kate sank down into the chair facing Genevieve’s de
sk. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I were.”
“Gen, that was a half-million-dollar account! What in the world did you do?”
Genevieve pursed her lips. “I didn’t do anything.”
“But you must have! Why in the world would they have dumped us unless you offended them or something? You know how touchy they are.”
Genevieve knew exactly how touchy her clients were because she’d been hung up on by several of them over the past two weeks. “If you’re trying to help, Kate, you’re doing a terrible job.”
“I think you should take some kind of class, Gen. Maybe you need to work on your delivery. I can’t afford to work for someone who offends everyone she meets. In fact, I don’t think I can afford to work for you at all.” She stood up. “I quit.”
Genevieve watched in complete astonishment as Kate left her office and slammed out the front door.
The phone rang. When it continued to ring, Genevieve frowned. Where was Angela? She finally reached for the receiver and picked it up.
“Dreams Restored, this is Genevieve.”
“Gen, it’s Peter. I’m at the airport. In Denver.”
“What’s up?”
“They fired me, that’s what’s up! What did you do to these people?”
Genevieve could hardly believe what she was hearing. “I didn’t do anything.” Hadn’t she just said the same thing to Kate? This was starting to become a bad habit. “Listen, Peter, let me call the Johnsons and see what’s—”
“Don’t. Don’t do anything else. They want nothing to do with you and told me they would sue for harassment if they heard from any of us again. I quit, Gen. You’re ruining my reputation.”
“But—”
“I’ll clean out my stuff when I get back. Sometime when you’re not there.”
The phone went dead. Genevieve could hardly believe her ears. She replaced the receiver slowly. The phone began to ring almost immediately. Where was Angela, anyway? She got up and walked out to the tiny reception area.
Angela’s souvenir collection was gone, but there was a note secured to the computer screen with well-chewed gum.
I quit, too, Gen. Sorry. Angela.
Genevieve put her head in her hands and tried to groan. It came out as more of a whimper. Business reversals were one thing. Having the entire crew abandon ship was another thing entirely. She sat down heavily at Angela’s desk, staring at the phone lines that were blinking furiously. Maybe she could get a temp in for the day until she could find someone permanent.
But until she took a few calls, she wouldn’t have a phone line free to get out on. She picked up line one, steeling herself for the worst.
Eight hours later, she wondered how she could have underestimated how bad things could get. Kate had reappeared about ten A.M. with moving boxes and cleaned out her desk. At noon, a messenger from Kate’s attorney had delivered a demand for two-months’ severance pay, with the threat of a lawsuit if Genevieve didn’t comply. Genevieve had been so numb, she’d cleaned out her savings account to do it.
It had been the afternoon for attorneys. Genevieve had heard from at least a dozen of them, representing various clients who never wanted to hear from her again. If it hadn’t hurt so badly each time she pinched herself, she would have been certain she was in a very prolonged, very vivid nightmare.
And so, eight hours into the dream from hell, she still sat at Angela’s desk. The phone lines weren’t blinking anymore. Angela’s office keys were in a tidy pile. Kate’s were in another tidy pile right next to them. Genevieve tried to smile at her organizational skills. Somehow, she just couldn’t manage it.
So she put her head down on the desk and cried.
She couldn’t find it.
Genevieve paced back and forth in front of her fireplace, frantically gulping down spoonfuls of double fudge ice cream. Her spoon came up empty and she cursed the container for being so small. She set her spoon on the bare mantel, then tossed the carton into the fire and watched the flames consume it. It was going up in smoke just like her life.
She rubbed her hands over her face, trying to concentrate. She had had a nap that afternoon, so weariness wasn’t an excuse. It was just hard to think with the rain beating so incessantly on the windows. It was unseasonably cold for September, as if a sinister force had taken control of the elements and was now taking delight in torturing the poor mortals doomed to walking the streets. She would be out walking the streets if she didn’t do something very soon. If she could just find that damned business card, and if it weren’t too late to say yes, she might be able to pull herself out of her current mess.
She looked around her living room. How hard could it be to find one simple piece of paper? Her furniture was gone, sold to provide refunds for incensed clients. Her office junk was piled in one corner of the room. Her Dreams Restored storefront sign leaned drunkenly against one wall. She turned away. Even though it had been over two months since she had closed up her shop, it still hurt to think about it.
She had to find Bryan McShane’s business card. It was her only hope. She was broke, furnitureless, and losing weight by the day. With any luck, Mr. McShane had been vacationing all summer and hadn’t been able to find anyone else to give that pile of stones to. She was more than ready to take it now. She had no more family, no more business and definitely no more money. Moving to England was sounding better by the minute. She could learn to like tea.
She’d thrown the card into the recycle pile, she knew that much. But there were no less than two dozen piles of papers occupying various bits of floor. Her mother would have been appalled, but at least the piles were neatly stacked. Genevieve had had a lot of time on her hands, and it showed.
She started on a pile near the doorway, ignoring the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. The card could be found. It would just take patience.
An hour and two piles later, she began to wonder if it would take more patience than she would ever have in a lifetime.
Three hours and four piles later, she knew it wasn’t going to take patience, it was going to take a miracle.
By dawn, she began to wonder if even a miracle would cut it. She had looked through every stack of paperwork in her house. She had checked the recycle pile near her phone and come up with nothing. She had checked the pile of cards by the sink, almost certain she would find Mr. McShane’s card there. Surely she wouldn’t have thrown it out. When would she have had time, with all the disasters going on around her?
By noon, her place was a wreck. She was a wreck. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember the name of Mr. McShane’s firm. She had called a London operator looking for his home number, but with no success.
She had blown it.
What she needed was brain food. She unearthed her change jar and started counting out pennies. If she could just come up with enough for a pint of chocolate-chip cookie dough ice cream, she was sure things would look better. At least she would have enough energy for another round of searching.
She had one dollar and six cents. Hardly enough for a good-size candy bar, much less gourmet ice cream.
She started to cry.
The phone started to ring.
Genevieve ignored it. It was probably another attorney calling on the off chance there was any meat left on the bones. She was sorry to disappoint him. If someone was keeping score, they would probably have shown it as: Dragons, a bunch; Buchanan, nothing. Oh, where was her handsome knight on his black destrier?
And still the phone rang. Maybe selling her answering machine hadn’t been such a good idea. Call screening came in handy now and then.
She finally gave in. She could always hang up.
“Hello?” she croaked.
“Miss Buchanan?”
Genevieve jumped to her feet.
“Mr. McShane?” she squeaked.
“Yes. I was in town and I was wondering if we could perhaps meet again?”
She laughed out loud. “When?”
“Um, yes, well, are you free for dinner?”
Now, that was a question for the annals. With only a soggy head of lettuce and some ketchup in her refrigerator, she was certainly free for dinner. All right, so Bryan McShane wasn’t exactly her ideal knight; he would certainly do in a pinch.
“How about a late lunch?” She didn’t care if she sounded desperate. Whatever he had to offer had to be better than what she had right then, which was nothing. “Say, in ten minutes?”
“If you’re certain you’ll have time—”
“Oh, I’m sure. Do you know where the China Bowl is?”
He did. Genevieve was still laughing when she hung up the phone.
Miracles never ceased.
Twenty minutes later she faced the attorney again, this time over an abundance of Chinese food.
“Well?” she asked with her mouth half-full. It would have been completely full had she been shoveling in the food as fast as she wanted to. What a nice change from generic macaroni and cheese.
“Seakirk. I’ve come to see if by chance you might have changed your mind.”
That was what she wanted to hear.
“I have,” Genevieve said. “I’ll go.”
Mr. McShane’s eyes went wide with surprise. “You will?”
“Yes. It’s a godsend.”
He looked around the room furtively before he leaned forward and spoke. “You know, Miss Buchanan, you needn’t accept if you don’t wish to.”
“How bad can it be?” she said with a smile, surprised at his change of heart. “You said the castle was in good shape. Don’t you want me to accept?”
“To be honest,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper, “the castle does possess an odd quirk or two.”
Genevieve felt a grin tug at her mouth. “Are you telling me it’s haunted?”